Title: Building Steam
Author: Aithilin
Rating: G - PG?
Genre: Steampunk AU, pre-slash
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: None
Warnings: non-graphic violence, utter AU
Word Count: approx. 4,330 this section
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.
Summary: The Impala heads for safe port and supplies— Dean learns that Castiel is capable of carrying a conversation.
Author's Notes: Title taken from the Abney Park song of the same name.

"You don't seem too upset that your friends are gone."

"I know you didn't kill them."

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you're a Winchester."

"Thought that made me more likely to kill."

Castiel stood like a soldier. It was something Dean had recognized early in their "meeting". Uriel had lurked, and Anna had this way of moving in and out of attention that probably made her very dangerous when not stuck in a cage. But Castiel was there, standing and solid, and looked like he would challenge Dean to prove that he wasn't corporeal.

Everyone heard stories of the Angels-- especially the pirates who were on the wrong end of any encounters-- they were traded in every tavern, saloon, and mechanic's workshop as easily and often as weapons. Stories were that no one attacked a vessel carrying a garrison of Angels, just like no one attacked a seafaring vessel carrying a garrison of Demons. It wasn't done. No one killed an Angel prisoner without fear of a whole mess of trouble.

Like the Demon troops that patrolled the waters, the Angels were nameless, faceless, uniform creatures that served and obeyed some unseen commander.

And here there was a named, formed, slightly smug Angel in Dean's brig.

"Where did you drop them?"

"You think I'm going to tell you?"

"Yes." At the incredulous look, Castiel offered his explanation: "It's not like I can do anything about it."

"Still not telling you, Cas." Honestly, Dean couldn't say where they had dropped the Angels. Wyoming, he knew for certain, and somewhere in the range facing inland. But the exact location was a mystery to him-- he had just focused on the tightest pass they could take through without eating through all the fuel. He was caught up in the musing until he realized that the Angel was looking at him with an odd expression caught between confusion and offense. "What?"

"My name is Castiel. Not 'Cas'."

A pause as Dean realized that the slip actually annoyed Castiel. He couldn't have stopped the grin that crossed his lips if he tried. "Too bad. I like it."

"You're trying to annoy me."

"Thought you Angel types were supposed to be emotionless."

Blue eyes narrowed as Castiel weighed the possibility that he was being baited. Deciding that this conversation was entirely for Dean's personal amusement, Castiel changed the topic back to something that he had a better foothold with.

"There are ATC checkpoints all over these mountains. Uriel and Anna will be picked up by a passing vessel."

"Didn't see any checkpoints."

"Of course you wouldn't."

That was a touch troubling. Not that Dean was concerned that the two Angels were going to be picked up or somehow saved from exposure-- they were off the ship and that's where his caring stopped-- but if these points were hidden, then the Impala could easily be spotted and intercepted. There may be no hard proof linking the Impala to piracy and raids, but Dean knew how the Trade Commission viewed things-- getting caught was never a good thing.

"If I showed you a map, could you point out the checkpoints?"

"Yes. But I won't."

"You just said that you would."

"That I could."

A pause as Dean considered this apparent stubborn streak. "Can I bribe you?"

"No."

"Anything?"

"No."

"You suck." Another moment as Dean tried to find some loophole. Threats didn't work, he knew, and bribery didn't seem like the thing. But something had kept the Angel here-- he had been the first to consider making a deal, the first to actually respond to Dean. "There has to be something you want."

Rather than reply, the Angel offered a short gesture that resembled a shrug. It was a simple lift and fall and far from the more exaggerated gestures Dean was used to seeing. Goddamn Angel stoicism.

"Fine." The brig was cold, and vulnerable, and uncomfortable, and Dean knew that half the crew would be down there with taunts and jeers if he lifted the ban on actually visiting prisoners. While it seemed petty to just let the guy stew in his own self-righteousness, that was exactly what Dean was going to do. If Castiel was still going to be a dick later, then Dean would consider letting the crew down to torment him.

In the meantime, he had to sit down with a map and try to think like a damned Angel.

------

"Why are you asking me?" Sam frowned at the maps. He knew where he'd put checkpoints and guard towers, but that was because the most common routes through the mountains were linear and hard to turn around in. No one liked to cross mountains, but it was the easiest way to get inland from the Western coast. "We'll be through the pass by tomorrow anyway."

"Or we could be shot down by then." If Sam was frowning at the maps, Dean looked like he was ready to chuck them into the fire. "Just help me figure out where they might be."

"Can't you just ask the Angel?"

"He's a dick."

"So, bribe him."

"He's a righteous dick."

Dean didn't have to look up to know that the barely contained sigh accompanied a roll of Sam's eyes. He could even pretend not to hear the muttered insults to his very fine character, so long as Sam did something useful. He was spared pulling rank -- as both captain and big brother-- when Sam pointed out three peaks that lined the most popular routes.

"Look, if I were trying to at least see who's coming through, I'd put them there. But they could just set up armed points at either end."

"You're really an optimist, Sammy."

"Shut up. I helped." Taking the map off the well-worn desk, Sam pinned the paper to the wall, right over the maps of routes along the West coast. "If we grab a trade wind, we can reach Bobby's in a couple of days. But we need to figure out what to do with your Angel."

"My Angel?"

"I don't want him, and the crew would kill him."

"He can stay in the brig until he softens up."

"And then what?"

Dean was not sulking. He was just sitting in his chair and finally considering the options of what to do with a captive Angel who refused to be bribed. "I don't know."

"How can we soften him up?"

"Can't we just leave him with Bobby?"

"Dean, we can't just dump this on Bobby." Dean was definitely not going to look up to see the expression that accompanied that tone. Sam thought he looked stern and simultaneously disappointed; Dean thought he looked like a pouting five-year-old, or constipated. "You have to deal with this."

"Fine." It was snapped, hurried, and entirely Dean trying to get out of a lecture. "Fine, Sam. I'll handle it."

"How?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Dean--"

"Look," Dean was not going to get lectured by his little brother. That was just never going to happen. Ever; "I'll get him out of the brig. Warm him up. See what he actually wants, and then go from there. Okay? Happy?"

"You can't put him with the crew."

"You have enough room for another bed."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Your Angel, Dean."

"Dude, he's not sleeping here."

"There's no where else to put him."

"I'm the captain, I don't share a room. Set up that cot thing in your room."

"I don't actually have the room for it, Dean. You can fit it in here and still move around."

"But he could try to kill me."

"You'd rather he try to kill me?"

"A little, yeah."

Dean knew that he wasn't going to win this. Not for the long-term, anyway. If Sam caved in, then he'd have to worry about the Angel actually killing his little brother, and if that didn't happen, then they might get along. Dean did not want Sammy to get along with Castiel. They'd influence each other and be all sorts of pain-in-the-ass trouble with their logic and rationality. The only way Dean was going to get any peace of mind was if the Angel was under his watch.

"Fine. But if he kills me, I'm leaving the ship to Bobby, not you."

"You don't actually know how a mutiny works, do you?"

------

It was a few hours longer than he thought, before Dean returned to the brig to pose the situation to Castiel. They had to find the cot, set it up, hide the weapons, and then threaten the crew into submission. Castiel hadn't actually responded to the explanation, but he seemed to accept it. There was something Dean was starting to understand about the Angel-- small ways that broadcast mistrust or acceptance.

It was making Dean wonder if he was an idiot. He'd known the guy for a couple of days. Not nearly long enough to pick up on moods.

But he still marched Castiel up past the galley and crew-- making sure to point out that the crew would slaughter him if he wandered-- and into his personal cabin.

The cabin wasn't really that large. It was wedged in the back of the ship, nestled between the core engines that controlled the propellers-- the arrangement made it loud, but no more than the rush of winds against the windows and wood. Out of the whole ship, it was the only room with a carpet. The bed was the largest piece of furniture, followed by the well-used desk. A cot-- just canvas tightened over a metal frame-- was shoved into a corner, fastened into place with ropes that looked ready to snap anyway.

The only noticeable deviation from any normal ship's decorating was that everything was mismatched. Bits and pieces had been pulled together from various markets, jobs, gifts… Anywhere and everywhere Dean could find what he needed, he took it.

Cas thought it was apt. The ship itself seemed to be a collection of unusual things. From what he had seen, things either just came together for the Winchesters or they were slapped together-- and affixed to each other-- with whatever fastening was handy at the time. In terms of the crew, it seemed that money and promises of violence was enough to keep them together.

"You're going to be staying here." Dean pointed to the cot, hit tone brooking no argument about the matter. "Touch anything, and I tie you up. Any questions?"

"Why your cabin?"

"So I can keep an eye on you."

Dean never really did like to admit that he might have misjudged a situation. But he figured that if he kept the Angel until they got to Bobby's, then he could pass the issue off and go back to nice, simple pirating. Still, it felt appropriate to add;

"So long as you stay out of my way, we'll get along just fine."

------

They had taken a detour when getting to Bobby's. The advantage of the trade routes meant that there was almost no end to trade vessels. Coming out of the mountains meant that there were plenty of ambush points-- so long as Dean sacrificed fuel and comfort to stay higher than the usual trade paths. The vantage point of a higher altitude meant that they could see (and prepare) any lone trade vessels. They were large, slow, and often carried more than they should, making them slow, lumbering beasts of prey. If they were sanctioned by the Trade Commission, then they were armed with a garrison to protect whatever valuables they were carrying. If they weren't sanctioned… Well, then Dean tended to get excited about them.

Despite the close call with a Gatling Gun mounted on the smuggling ship, Dean was in a good mood. The crew was dividing up the loot out in the larger galley, but Dean was already on his way back to his cabin.

The detour had added a day to the trip to Bobby's, but it had given him some time. Dean wasn't sure if that was a good thing, yet, but it had let him learn a few new things.

For instance, he now knew that Castiel was entirely too serious. And, that the Angel was perfectly fine sneaking around to give advice and information without being upfront about it.

In the middle of the night, the markings Sam had doodled on the map of the Wyoming Range were circled, along with one in a deep valley that Dean assumed indicated another checkpoint that was probably in place for the ground trade routes. A list of trade vessels with alleged time and route changes (which Sam and Dean had argued about-- the list came from a contact of Bobby's. The same contact that had led them straight to an airship full of Angels.) was marked up, different times and routes marked in. On one or two of the new lines were numbers. It had taken a while for Dean to realize that the new numbers were the number of Angels travelling with official ATC ships.

Dean refused to acknowledge Castiel's help right now. But he was willing to warm up to the guy if he started talking.

On the way into his cabin, he bumped into Sam on the way out. "Dude! What the hell were you doing in my room?"

"Talking to Cas." The taller Winchester steadied his brother with a hand on a shoulder, an offer of balance before any loot was dropped.

"He's finally talking?"

"Dean, we've been talking to each other for days. He's a decent guy."

"You're just a suck up to authority."

"Dude, he's a prisoner."

"Still, you're a bitch. You're going to get us into trouble some day."

"Jerk." Sam had to press himself against the wall to let Dean through properly. "You should think about giving him his wings back."

"You're too trusting, Sammy." The real issue Dean had was that, while he appreciated the information suddenly appearing in his notes and maps, he suspected it was because Castiel was just bored. They had gone a couple of days without anything to really do-- this last raid was a fluke, and only really good for morale right now.

For all Dean knew, Castiel was a spy, or somehow signalling the Angels. Or any other number of paranoid fantasies that were probably impossible. Or possible, though Dean didn't think they were really very likely.

Still, his brother could go enjoy the looting part of the job-- the crew liked the pushover little brother more, anyway.

His next thought stopped cold. He could smell coffee, fresh coffee. Someone had touched his coffee.

It took a moment to realize that Castiel had actually prepared the drink for him. His claim of the spoils were set aside by the door for sorting later, and Dean focused his senses on the only warm drink on the ship. Most people dealt with the cold by getting drunk, or wearing too many layers-- the luxury of a warm drink or warm meal was practically the stuff that started mutinies.

Convinced that there were no poisons or drugs in the drink, Dean took a moment to let the steam warm chilled skin.

"Heard you've been talking to Sammy." It was the only acknowledgement he was going to spare at the moment.

"We've been talking."

"I'm surprised you talk. Normally you just sit in here and sulk."

"I was not aware being co-operative was considered sulking."

"Oh, it's sulking. Totally sulking." Apparently two days of mostly quiet co-operation between them was enough to establish some sort of comfort. Still, there was no way in hell Dean was sharing his coffee with the guy. "What were you up to in here? You know, other than 'talking'."

The response wasn't something that he had expected. For one, it was sarcastic, which wasn't something he had ever expected from the Angel if only because Castiel seemed oblivious to sarcasm when it came from any source. Then there was the fact that he hadn't expected a response at all. The Angel seemed to be comfortably ignoring Dean, sitting on the cot and looking through a book that Sam had brought in a day ago.

"I was thinking of ways to kill you in your sleep."

Dean was starting to wonder just how much of a bad influence Sam was. "Too bad. I was thinking of giving you your wings back, so long as you taught Sam how they work so we can replicate them."

"My wings are damaged. I would need to repair them."

"Can you teach Sam about them while you do the repairs?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll see about getting them back to you." Dean was going to chalk the generosity up to the really good coffee warming his hands and throat. "When we land."

Castiel frowned, a look Dean was getting used to (though he really didn't want to admit that he was getting used to anything about the strange guy who'd been all too quick to betray his comrades), as a thought occurred to him. Dean tended to ignore the look whenever possible, since he knew it meant that he was going to be asked a question if he acknowledged the expression. Apparently, just looking up from his coffee worked as acknowledgement.

"You have no idea what to do with me, do you?"

"I have ideas."

"Like?"

"I'm not telling you. It's privileged information."

"So, you don't know."

"Dude, I liked you better when you didn't talk."

Then there was the second look that Dean really hated on the Angel. It was smug, amused, and probably a little bit of "I told you so" mixed in for good measure. Dean always assumed that expression was some form of gloating. And, he was never going to admit to having learned the most common expressions that crossed Castiel's face-- it suggested familiarity, and they were not familiar. Castiel was one of those self-righteous, "rules are important" dicks that made Dean's line of work very hard. Still, there were a few things he needed answers for.

"Why were you so quick to offer information?"

"Because I wanted to."

There was a story there, Dean knew it. But the way Castiel turned back to the borrowed book meant that he was done with the whole talking thing today.

Dean swore that the guy had a daily quota for conversation. "Whatever, Cas."

"Don't call me that."

------

Each wing was a marvel of engineering.

Everything depended on how close the mechanics could mirror a bird-- with each canvas feather containing a lightweight frame melded to the overall skeleton. It moved the same way a bird's wing would, drawing parallel to the Angel's body with each downward stroke and flaring again to catch the air as it rose. A plethora of gears and wires mimicked muscle, each fragile piece having a different part to play in catching the air and propelling the Angel. If one part broke-- one gear, one cog, a single thread-thin wire-- then the wings were useless until repaired.

Cas knew how to repair them, replace and weld damaged piece and perform general maintenance to make them flight worthy. It was a misnomer that the wings actually allowed flight. They were for close distance, an occasional glide between ships or docks. While they flapped and propelled, the angle was always too odd for a human being to maintain.

No matter the technology, humans were simply incapable of flight.

Dean had never really got a good look at the wings before. In the air, in battle, they were to be avoided, a single stroke could break a man's neck with the force. They were hazards, and he knew that if the Angel wasn't trained properly, or borrowing some other set, death was a sure thing. Wings were tailored to their owners.

But now they were stretched out on the floor of Bobby's workshop. Twelve feet from tip to tip (the "primaries" as Castiel would explain to Sam later), with an extra two foot gap between for the body of the Angel.

He could see Castel work expert hands over the exposed skeleton of one wing, feigning disinterest. He knew how things worked, how the Impala worked. Down to the smallest screw. So he had assumed that if he saw the wings, the skeleton, the frame, exposed like this, he would just understand where everything went and how it all worked.

But as he looked at them now, at how Castiel pulled, tweaked, and reworked what looked like a copper muscle, Dean had to admit that he was lost.

"How can you do that?"

"Mm?"

"The wings, how do you know what goes where?"

"I'm trained to." Deft hands tugged a loose wire free and began to rethread it through a miniscule pulley system.

"They're freaky."

"Don't you know how your ship works?"

"That's different."

"Not really." Castiel hadn't turned his attention away from the delicate work.

Between the wings were the straps, leather wrapped around those thin wires to the box that rested on the Angel's chest in flight. Dean understood the basics of the box-thing. There needed to be a counter weight, some sort of balance to let Castiel get the right angle for leverage. That was simple. But the box had knobs, and two switches, and more wires.

One dial was twisted a fraction, and the wing jerked to life-- a shudder and sudden contraction at the wing folded at the gears worked their magic. Dean was impressed, but Castiel was not. Another twist and the wing spread out again, opened once more to Castiel's working hands. Minor adjustments and the test was repeated. It had started to move more naturally (if a wing constructed from metal and canvas could be called natural in any way), it lost the shudder and slowed to a more fluid pace.

It was all too far above Dean's head.

Stepping carefully around the work area, Dean headed to the door, knowing that Sam couldn't be too far. "Your wings are freaking me out. Explain all that stuff to Sammy."

"That an order?"

"If you don't follow it, the only canvas you get to cover that contraption with is going to be pink." Dean never thought he would see that look of sly amusement cross Castiel's features, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know just what had caused it. "Just behave. I'm getting Sam to make sure you don't destroy something."

Bobby's place was practically a haven for pirates. Aside from the promise of staying under the radar while in town, the man operated the best scrap heap this side of the continent. It was small, and usually took some digging to find the right parts, and the larger, more official salvage yards offered bulk deals for a backup supply. But Bobby's stuff was untraceable and durable. Not only had he found the parts needed for Castiel's wings, but he had managed to get the crew of the Impala working on modifying the bellows that kept warm air circulating through the ship from the fires (the same warm air that filled the monstrous air bag that offered the lift-- but it took far less to heat the ship).

But while the repairs and the new parts were useful, what Dean really wanted from Bobby was advice. Specifically, he wanted advice about the Angel (was he an ex-Angel yet? Dean wasn't sure if he could think about Castiel as part of the crew yet, even if he was helpful, sort of) and what to do with the guy.

"You'd better have a way to pay for these parts, boy."

"Sure, Bobby."

The primary workplace in the yard was outside, but that didn't stop Bobby from bringing the work inside. The man was presently hunched over a table covered in gears and wires-- the pile of scrap looked more like a couple of clocks had exploded rather than any sort of project Dean could recognize. The work didn't stop Bobby from looking up enough to level a glare at Dean. "I mean it."

"I know, I have a second set of wings for you, and one of those fancy silver knives the Angel's use."

A harrumph was the only response Dean knew he was going to get on that. But all the same, he pulled out the second seat at the small table and tried to ignore the way the chair scraped the floor and sent half a dozen junk parts skittering across the worn and scratched wood.

"Bobby, I need your help."

"Of course you do."

"What do I do with Castiel?"

"What's he good at?"

It took a moment for Dean to register the question and the implications. "He's not part of my crew."

"Looks like it to me, boy."

"He's not. He's an Angel."

"Don't be an idjit. Sam told me what the guy's been doing onboard your ship."

"So he's a little helpful…"

"And he hasn't run off yet. Or signalled the Trade Commission, when he had plenty of time."

"So he's stupid."

"Looks to me like he wants to help out."

"Bobby-"

"Don't you start. If you're worried, you go get this character squared through Ash's information. But the man looks like he wants to stick around, so if you don't want a turn-coat Angel helping you, then I'll take him off your hands and get him set up here making those radios the Commission's been using."

Dean frowned, not liking how this had turned out and not sure if he should trust Bobby's judgement on the subject. All the same, the suggestion to get Ash looking into the ATC records on the guy wouldn't really hurt.

"Fine. I'll see Ash tomorrow."

"You'll need the good whiskey to bribe him. Take the full one in the cabinet."

"How much is that going to cost me?"

"Get Castiel to make one of those radio things."